Two people, one way of seeing.

Every good story needs someone who bets on it early, usually well before it's a good story yet. Pulkesh is that someone. He built his first venture absurdly young, from close to nothing, armed with little more than nerve and the quiet stubbornness of a person who'd rather make a thing than hold a meeting about making it.

Ask him about it and he'll change the subject. Humble to a fault, he can deflect a compliment before you've finished the sentence. What he won't hide is the other thing: he's the secret art enthusiast in the room. The one who lingers a beat too long in front of a painting. The one who notices the craft, the patience, the very human hands behind the work.

He understands something the art world tends to forget, that art and enterprise have always been quietly in love. Someone dreams, someone builds, someone believes. Pulkesh believes. Creative, unreasonably supportive, and one of a kind, he backs other people's visions without ever needing his name in lights.

Which is, of course, exactly why his name belongs here.

If you're here, chances are you've looked at a painting, sculpture, miniature, temple carving, or old photograph at some point and thought:

This looks beautiful… but I have absolutely no idea what's going on.

Honestly, so did I.

I grew up surrounded by stories, traditions, mythology, craftsmanship, and visual culture. Like many Indians, I saw art everywhere: in temples, homes, festivals, textiles, markets, family albums, and old books. Yet somehow, nobody taught me to see it.

For the longest time, I believed art was something that belonged in museums, behind glass, accompanied by intimidating descriptions written by people much smarter than me.

Turns out, I was wrong.

The more I explored Indian art, the more I realized that it wasn't distant or exclusive. It was deeply human. It spoke about love, power, devotion, ambition, identity, humor, grief, beauty, politics, and the strange ways people have tried to make sense of the world for thousands of years.

And that's how Nazaria was born.

“Nazaria” means perspective, a way of seeing.

This isn't an academic journal. It isn't a place where you'll need a degree in art history to understand what's being discussed. Think of it more as a conversation over chai with a friend who just discovered something fascinating and can't wait to tell you about it.

Here, we'll explore everything from Mughal miniatures and Chola bronzes to contemporary artists, forgotten traditions, iconic masterpieces, strange stories, artistic rivalries, symbolism, and the people behind the works.

Sometimes we'll get philosophical. Sometimes we'll get nerdy. Sometimes we'll spend 2,000 words obsessing over a tiny detail in a painting because it completely changes the way you see it. And occasionally, we'll discover that artists from centuries ago were every bit as dramatic, ambitious, clever, and wonderfully human as people today.

Our goal isn't simply to teach art history. It's to help you build a relationship with art.

Because once you learn how to look, galleries become more interesting. Museums become less intimidating. History becomes more personal. And the world becomes a little richer.

Most importantly, we hope Nazaria helps us reconnect with a cultural inheritance that has always belonged to us. Not through lectures. Not through gatekeeping. But through curiosity.

So whether you're an artist, student, collector, history enthusiast, or simply someone who clicked on an article out of curiosity. Welcome.We're glad you're here.

Let's learn to see together.

Vartika & Pulkesh